


Tha Mi

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-05-27
Updated: 2000-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-10 14:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11128968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: By way of getting in touch with his culture, Fraser gets a new garment





	Tha Mi

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Tha Mi

 

 

****_Disclaimer: This story is written for the private entertainment  
of fans. The author makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal  
by the creation of this story. Fraser, Vecchio, et.al. belong to Alliance.  
No infringement of any copyrights held by CBS, Alliance, CTV or any other  
copyright holders of DUE SOUTH is intended. This story is not published  
for profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to  
be reproduced for profit.  
_  
Rated PG m/m Fraser/Kowalski  
Notes: Tha Mi is Gaelic for 'I am'.  
 ****Tha Mi  
  
by Carol Trendall  
  
He had coveted a garment like this for a long  
time. Made of the finest wool from yarn hand dyed and woven into a massive  
length of fabric, its design was centuries old, lovingly created by the  
finest craftsmen who themselves wore similar garments. The garment was  
laid between sheets of delicate paper, packed with its accessories into  
a box and shipped across the world into the waiting hands of Constable  
Benton Fraser, who had no doubt that he now possessed the finest kilt  
in America.  
  
The box sat on his desk, unopened, until the end of the day. He had  
not wanted to open it whilst others were in the consulate � others  
who might not understand the importance of the garment. This was something  
to be cherished, worn in private and made his. The time would come when  
he would wear it for all to see, but for the moment he was content to  
wear it alone.  
  
Fraser drew the garment from its nest of tissue and with great reverence  
carried it into the hallway outside his office, where he stretched it  
out to its full ten yards on the smooth hardwood floor. Taking two deep,  
cleansing breaths, he dropped to his knees and lowered himself onto the  
length of cloth, arms stretched across its width. After another deep  
breath he began. When he was certain of his precision he began the fold,  
continuing in the time-honoured fashion as taught to him by his paternal  
grandfather many years earlier.  
  
When the fold was complete he rose and positioned the cloth around his  
body; secured by the broad leather belt that had been packed with the  
kilt. When the final length was draped across the shoulder of the white  
cotton tunic that accompanied the kilt, Fraser secured it not with the  
pin that had arrived in the package, but with an old penannular pin that  
had been handed down from his grandfather to his father and now to him.  
  
He hesitated before checking his appearance in the mirror, but was pleased  
when he finally did. Not normally a vain man, Fraser smiled with intense  
satisfaction at the figure he cut. He knew the time would soon come  
when he could wear his kilt proudly for others to see. That thought  
made him smile even more and it was with a light heart he set about the  
filing Inspector Thatcher had left for him to complete that evening.  
  
  
After an hour of solid filing, he collected the final stack of paperwork  
from his desk and carried it to the filing cabinet, softly humming a  
jig as he worked. He was so intent on the tune and sway of his kilt  
against his bare legs that it took longer than normal for Fraser to realise  
he was not alone. He looked up from his filing and smiled with pleasure  
when he saw his partner standing in the doorway.  
  
"Hello, Ray."  
  
Ray was too stunned to speak at first. He moved his weight from one  
foot to the other then scrubbed a hand through his spiky blonde hair.  
Finally, he found his voice.  
  
"Fraser, what the hell are you wearing?"  
  
"It's a kilt, Ray." He stepped away from the cabinet and moved  
towards his friend. "You see I ... "  
  
Ray rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid. I know it's a kilt. What  
I want to know is *why* you're wearing it."  
  
It was the Mountie's turn to be surprised. Did Ray not know of his heritage?  
"I'm a Fraser ... of Scottish descent. I thought it time I publicly  
acknowledged my culture."  
  
Ray moved into the room and settled onto the edge of the desk. His relaxed  
posture and teasing smile showed he was over his initial surprise.  
  
"So this is some sort of Mountie 'return to the tribe'?"  
  
Fraser's body language was a little defensive. "Well, that's a  
crude way of putting it, Ray, but I think you understand."  
  
Ray shook his head in disbelief. "You know I'm all for getting  
in touch with your heritage, but geez, I don't think I'd wear that."  
  
Fraser was nonplussed. "You don't have to. You're Polish."  
He stepped back to the cabinet and returned to his filing, stuffing a  
few documents into folders before speaking again, this time allowing  
a note of petulance to creep into his voice. "Anyway, it all depends  
on how important it is to be recognisable as belonging to a particular  
clan. It's become very important to me lately ... I mean, to wear the  
tartan of my clan."  
  
Ray shrugged. "Whatever works for you, buddy." He looked  
away from his friend and began fiddling with the neat row of pens on  
Fraser's desk. "I guess I never thought the Fraser tartan would  
be so ... colourful."  
  
Fraser looked up from his task, his mouth forming a perfect 'o'. "Oh  
this isn't the Fraser tartan, Ray. The Fraser tartan is red and black."  
  
"Of course." He rolled his eyes then looked up to meet his  
friend's steady gaze. "So you're wearing some other tribe, or clan,  
or whatever ... you're wearing their tartan? Isn't there a law about  
that?"  
  
Fraser's voice grew serious. "No need for a law, Ray. No Scotsman  
would wear another clan's tartan. It could lead to all sorts of trouble."  
  
Confused, Ray leaned forward slightly. "So why are you wearing someone  
else's tartan?"  
  
"But I'm not, Ray."  
  
"I don't get it, Fraser. You said that ... thing ... you're wearing  
is not Fraser tartan."  
  
"That's right. This kilt is not the Fraser tartan, but it is still  
my clan tartan."  
  
Ray frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
Given the opportunity to tell his story, Fraser's face lit up and his  
voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "You see, this tartan  
is a new one, only registered recently. There is a great body in Scotland,  
the Scottish Tartan Society, which accepts hundreds of applications every  
year to register new tartans. This one is very important, you see, because  
it establishes acceptance of a whole clan."  
  
"And you belong to that clan?" Ray folded his arms across  
his chest and cocked his head to one side.  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"I don't get it." Ray's voice showed his confusion. "Don't  
you have to be born somewhere? Or marry someone? You can't just decide  
to belong to a clan, can you?"  
  
"Times have changed, Ray. Previously, some groups came under the  
protection of other clans. Now, new tartans are accepted from those  
groups as well as others so that they become a clan in their own right.  
It's very important in this day and age."  
  
"So this new group ... they ..."  
  
"Oh it's not new, Ray. This clan has been around for a long time."  
  
"Whoa, you haven't gone and joined some weird religious sect have  
you? Do I have to learn some special handshake?"  
  
"No, that would be the Masons."  
  
"So, spill it already. What is it?"  
  
Fraser put down his files, smoothed the pleat of his kilt and squared  
his shoulders.  
  
"Ray, I am wearing the tartan of the gay and lesbian clan."  
  
Ray gave a derisive snort. "Well that would explain the rainbow  
colours."  
  
Ignoring the barb, Fraser said simply, "Yes, it does."  
  
"But I still don't ... " Eyes widening, Ray voice showed his  
shock. " ... wait ...you're a member of this clan?"  
  
Fraser nodded once, firmly. "I am."  
  
"So I guess you don't mean you think you're a lesbian because you  
like women?"  
  
"No, Ray." He shook his head solemnly. "I'm gay because  
I like men."  
  
"All this time ... you never told me ... " Ray's voice trailed  
off in wonder.  
  
"You never asked."  
  
"You're right." In the light of Fraser's candid response,  
he had no other answer.  
  
Ray's voice dropped to a low, sexy level. "So, do I get to find  
out what's under your kilt?"  
  
Fraser rolled his eyes. He had anticipated this question. "That's  
such a cliché."  
  
"So? I want to know."  
  
Finally recognising the real interest in his friend's tone, Fraser squeaked  
out, "You want to know what's under my kilt?"  
  
Cocky now, Ray pushed off the desk and swaggered towards the Mountie.  
"Hey, I might even want to wear one."  
  
"You're Polish."  
  
"You're quick, Fraser," Ray said, raking his eyes over the  
broad chest that was now right in front of him.  
  
"So," Fraser breathed, letting Ray back him up against the  
filing cabinet, "does this mean that you, ah, that you ... belong  
to this clan?"  
  
"Sometimes." Ray pressed himself against Fraser, his hands  
resting on the other man's hips.  
  
It was a while before Fraser could speak again, but when he did his voice  
was slightly higher than normal. "Well Ray," he cleared his  
throat and continued, "I'll ... I'll ... have to think about that.  
You see, wearing a kilt is a big decision ... you have to be prepared  
to make a commitment ..."  
  
"I can do that." Ray's tone was bolder than ever as he sent  
his hand down Fraser's firm thigh.  
  
"Well, good. I think ... I think ...Ray! You're hands are cold."  
  
"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?"  
  
"There are no pockets in a kilt and you know I'm not licensed to  
carry a gun in Chicago."  
  
Ray's voice was smug. "Then I guess you're pleased to see me."  
  
Fraser didn't answer. He just set about showing Ray how pleased he was  
to see him.  
  
 _Comments welcome at_  



End file.
